Stop - by
the bus driver says it’s really nice
to see the children in the park
Language: English
Earthstruck - by
Becoming used to his stare, she turned
her own gaze back to the depth of soil
before bedrock, that one boggy corner,
the tricky curves and angles of slopes
Foam theory - by
Dear unbreakable day
I have been trying to get through
with my small hammer, sixteen hours of loss.
from Achanalt - by
The man who made the request stop
for Achanalt never left the train;
How to eat frogs - by
Grandmothers croak welcome, and crows
watch from a sagging power line.
and he held me in his palms - by
I resembled a self un-sewn a child’s drawing in a hospital room
when I left that room I was wonky
walking the way a stain would run
Goldcrest - by
You email of a goldcrest, drawn
by your window light, this fresh spring
to watch you write.
Treasure Island - by
Unadorned but for the clip
on your umbilical cord, we are
skin to skin.
Four poems from “Lockerbie, Pan Am Flight 103” - by
On 21 December 1988, the longest night of the year, Pan Am Flight 103 fell on the small town of Lockerbie, killing all 259 passengers and crew, and 11 Lockerbie residents. It remains the worst terrorist attack on UK soil. The Wishin’ Gate Leuk beneath ma gravestane,through the keekie-hole when the rowan’s laden,when the summer’s […]
In the Garden - by
(For M) You saw it today: you gazedat the apple tree’s budslike someone who never saw blossomunfurl in the sunlight until now. As light fades,the blossom’s a quiet silhouette.I reach for your hand in the dark, we lie on our backson the red tartan rugwe once used for picnics,watching the holesin the sky effervesce.You tell […]
Tusitala - by
(‘Interviewing’ Robert Louis Stevenson in Samoa) It was not the place of my birth that I loved,nor the trail of her smoke nor the sun on the Forth,nor the dark of her light nor her half-light, but this land I have foundand the splash and the roar of her sea where the women take the […]
The last woman born on the island - by
(i) She’s soft as a cot rag.In the palm of your hand she’s a comma, an apostrophe, pluckedfrom a passage written in wool. Tease her apartand she’s smoke plume, a child’s scribbled thundercloud.She’s a snag of sheep, the kind bred for centurieson the edge of the world. Her stink on your fingers lastslong after you’ve […]